LITMIR.BIZ

      CHAPTER ONE

      ‘JUSTIN, this is unbelievable; there’s a photographer—oh, sorry, I didn’t realise you were with someone.’

      Lucinda Waite paused on the threshold of her husband’s study, then swept in, continuing, ‘But it’s only you, Sasha—well, you and someone else. How do you do?’ she added politely to the third party in the study. ‘I’m Justin’s wife Lucinda, but most people call me Lucy. Who are you?’ she enquired, extending her hand graciously.

      ‘Robert Lang,’ the third party murmured, rising hastily and taking the extended hand. ‘How do you do, Mrs Waite?’ He was about twenty-three and looked both embarrassed and slightly dazed.

      ‘Not very well, thank you, Mr Lang,’ Lucy Waite replied with a grimace. ‘My privacy is being invaded—and I can’t help feeling you might be responsible for it all.’

      Robert Lang blinked beneath a clear blue gaze and made a mental note that registered some surprise. They were the colour of deep blue velvety pansies, her eyes, and her skin had the texture of cream rosebuds while her hair, caught back carelessly, was the colour of ripe wheat. Now, now, he cautioned himself, letting his gaze drift over the rest of Lucinda Waite, it can’t be all perfection. Short legs possibly, out of proportion with the rest of her, or hippy and pear-shaped, thick legs—no, his eyes widened, talk about legs, they were sensational...

      ‘You’re staring, Mr Lang,’ Sasha Pearson said all but inaudibly and not quite kindly She was an elegant redhead in her early thirties but whether she was family hadn’t been made clear.

      But Robert Lang, despite his youth, was not without charm and ingenuity. ‘I sure am,’ he conceded boyishly. ‘In point of fact, I’m quite bowled over. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone as lovely as you, Mrs Waite—er—if you’ll forgive me for saying so, sir!’ He turned deferentially to Justin Waite still sitting behind his desk, not altogether in a further demonstration of his charm but because, to his mind, Justin Waite was not the kind of man one gave offence to and possibly least of all in the matter of his stunningly beautiful, flawless, twenty-year-old-if -she-were-a-day wife.

      ‘You’re forgiven, Mr Lang,’ Justin Waite said. ‘My wife has been having that effect on people since she was in her cradle.’ He moved in his chair and stood up, revealing most of the over six foot, lean, muscled length of him that, coupled with rather hard grey eyes and a look of worldliness and experience, had kindled Robert Lang’s wariness in the first place. ‘My wife has also,’ he went on coolly, ‘been leading people up the garden path for almost as long.’

      Lang’s eyes widened and jerked to Lucinda. But, far from any expression of outrage, she merely smiled faintly, and murmured, ‘What have I done now, Justin?’

      ‘Invaded your own privacy, my dear, from what I can gather. Did you or did you not write to a certain publication and invite them up here to do a story on the place, and on you?’

      ‘Yes, I did—so that’s who you are!’ Lucy said to Lang with a glorious smile. ‘But you didn’t let me know you were coming. I thought you must be one of those maverick journalists who turn up from time to time and make my life a misery.’

      ‘Lucy, that happened once and has never been repeated,’ Justin Waite said in the kind of voice that caused Robert Lang some trepidation, although it didn’t seen to have any effect on his wife.

      ‘And the reason you didn’t know he was coming, Lucy,’ Sasha Pearson—where did she fit in? Robert wondered—rose and picked up a letter from the desk, ‘is because while Justin and I were away you didn’t bother to open any mail although you assured me you would.’

      ‘That’s right,’ Robert Lang said eagerly. ‘I did write and suggest today if it would suit you.’

      ‘Oh, dear,’ Lucy Waite said regretfully. ‘You really should have waited for a reply, Mr Lang, but now I know who you are, we might as well go ahead. I’ve got nothing else on. By the way, you are indispensable, Sasha, aren’t you? Forgive me for ever doubting it! I’ll just go and get changed.’

      ‘You’ll do no such thing, Lucy.’

      ‘Justin.’ Lucy protested. ‘Why not?’

      Blue eyes stared into hard grey ones and, despite only mild protest registering in Lucy Waite’s expression, the atmosphere was suddenly electric and Robert Lang found himself, to his amazement, wondering what went on behind locked doors between Justin Waite and his wife. Did he beat her or did he throw her down on the bed and make punishing love to her...

      ‘Because I say so, Lucy,’ Justin Waite said with sudden detachment as he looked away from his wife thereby seeming to cut the electric current between them. ‘Go back to your horses, my dear, and I will apologise for this misunderstanding.’

      Lucy Waite shrugged. ‘Whatever you say, Justin,’ she murmured. ‘Do forgive me, Mr Lang,’ she added. ‘I haven’t been married very long, you see, so I’m not altogether familiar with the rules, I guess, but I—’

      ‘Lucy—’

      ‘Just going, Justin. Bye!’ She strolled out with a wave.

      ‘I gather,’ Justin Waite said across the dinner table, to his wife, ‘that today’s events were more shots in the war you promised me the day you married me, Lucy.’

      Lucy Waite smoothed down the skirt of the clinging, long-sleeved black dress with a heart-shaped neckline that she’d changed into for dinner

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